Alright, let’s talk about writing personal stuff. You know, the kind that feels like peeling off a Band-Aid to show the scar underneath? I used to think “personal writing” meant slapping adjectives onto my feelings like Post-it notes. (Spoiler: My college journal was 80% cringe.) Then I had to write my dad’s eulogy. Staring at that blank Google Doc at 2 a.m., Dunkin’ Donuts cold brew sweating next to me, I realized I’d been doing it all wrong.
Here’s the thing: personal writing isn’t about decorating the truth. It’s about excavating it. That time I tried to write a “quirky” wedding toast about my sister and accidentally made it sound like a Yelp review for her personality? Yeah. Rookie mistake.
What actually works:
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Start with the small shards.
Don’t tackle the whole memory mosaic at once. That time your kid handed you a dandelion like it was the Hope Diamond? Write that moment first—the way their sticky fingers smudged your sleeve, how the sun hit the fuzz on their earlobe. Details are GPS coordinates for the heart. -
Vulnerability > vocabulary.
My most-read blog post? The one where I admitted I once hid in a Target bathroom stall to avoid talking to my neighbor about her MLM oils. Used phrases like “fluorescent-lit shame” and “peach-mango pep talk.” No thesaurus needed. People crave real, not pretty. -
Steal from your own life soundtrack.
I keep a Spotify playlist called “Write Ugly Cry.” When I’m stuck, I play the song that was looping when I got divorced (Fleetwood Mac’s Silver Springs, thanks for asking) or the one my toddler demands on repeat (Baby Shark, tragically). Music yanks memories out like stubborn drawer handles.
Oh, and that eulogy?
I wrote it as a letter to Dad’s 1987 Pontiac—the car he taught me to drive in, windows down, Springsteen drowning out my gear-grinding. When I read it aloud, my aunt snorted coffee through her nose at the part about him using golf tees as toothpicks. Mission accomplished.
Practical voodoo that works:
- Text yourself voice memos while folding laundry or walking the dog. Your unfiltered rambles are gold.
- Write the messy first draft in Comic Sans. Seriously. It’s like sweatpants for your brain.
- Read it aloud to your cat/fern/mirror. If your voice cracks, you’re onto something.
Last thing: You’ll hate 70% of what you write. I once deleted an essay about postpartum anxiety so fast I gave myself carpal tunnel. But then my niece asked for help with her college essay—something about how volunteering at the animal shelter made her realize “dogs are better listeners than my TikTok followers.” We workshopped it over milkshakes, and when she got into UIC? Felt like we’d won the Super Bowl.
So grab a notebook. Or your Notes app. Start with the burnt grilled cheese incident, the way your grandpa tied his shoes, the panic attack in the Costco parking lot. Write like nobody’s reading—because at first, they’re not. And when you’re done? Hit save. Pour another coffee. Let it marinate.
The world needs your stories, not your synonyms.
(P.S. If all else fails, pretend you’re explaining it to a stranger at a Chicago Cubs game. Works every time. ⚾)